


Farewell, my Almost-Lover

by punkrockgaia



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Cecil's POV, M/M, Post-Eternal Scouts, Sad, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:43:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockgaia/pseuds/punkrockgaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Drink to forget,</i> I think to myself, but I'm not sure that's what I want. I'm not sure I want to forget.</p>
<p>I think I want to remember you, Earl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farewell, my Almost-Lover

**Author's Note:**

> So I heard the song "Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy while I was in the grocery store, and though the lyrics probably suit Earl better, Cecil barged his way into my head with this fic. I've always felt that Cecil gets the short end of the stick a bit in the CecEarl fandom, so I thought something from his POV might be in order.

I unlock the door and half-walk, half-collapse inside. It's been an exhausting day. I managed to keep it together for the broadcast, even though I felt like crying. I don't feel like crying any more, I just feel beaten.

The apartment's quiet, of course. It's quiet and dark and empty. It always is, when I get home. Maybe someday I'll come home to someone. Past performance is not a predictor of future results.

I drag myself into the kitchen and open up the fridge. There isn't much in there, but then again, I don't feel much like eating, anyhow. I close it and open up the cabinet above the sink and grab the armagnac. It's kind of a shame to waste good brandy on a night like this, but it's all I have left, so it'll have to do. 

I go back into the living room and slouch into my favorite chair. Well, okay, my only chair. I'll get around to getting another one, eventually. 

The important thing about this chair is that it's comfortable. It's worn, and it's red, and it used to belong to my grandparents and it has three down-filled throw pillows that support my lumbar spine and it has a good view of the television and it's right next to the end table with the faux-Tiffany lamp and the remote control and the ashtray. Oh, and there's a matching ottoman for my feet. 

I prop my feet up on the ottoman and fish my cigarettes out of my pocket. Shit. Only four left. I should have stopped on the way home and gotten more, but the allure of my apartment and my chair and my pajamas and the bottle of armagnac was too strong. I haven't gotten as far as the pajamas yet, but the night is still young.

I light a cigarette (25% of the total, soon to be up in smoke, har har), and lift the bottle partway to my lips, but I feel like I don't have the strength to take it the rest of the way. _Drink to forget,_ I think to myself, but I'm not sure that's what I want. I'm not sure I want to forget.

I think I want to remember you, Earl.

I admit my memory isn't the best -- absentminded would be a kind way to describe me -- but so many of the sparse memories I keep of my childhood involve you. Our first day of kindergarten, when you sat next to me and held my hand and told me not to be scared. Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts and camping out in the desert under the big, starlit void. Crouching in the gym during street cleaning drills. 

Kissing in my room, kissing in your room, kissing everywhere we could find ourselves alone for long enough to kiss. More than kissing, eventually, but hey, that's just my way of saying "I like you."

Foolish, foolish Cecil.

I hope you don't think I ever meant to lead you on. I swear I didn't. Looking back, I never should have let things get physical between us, but at the time... I guess I've always had more hormones than brains. I'm sorry if I hurt you.

I know you think you didn't mean anything to me, but that's not true. I wish I could have been more for you, though. For what it's worth, I tried. For as frustrated as you must have been with me, know that I was a thousand times more frustrated with myself. You were all I wanted, in so many ways... I just couldn't make my heart play along, and after a while, I couldn't pretend.

My cigarette's burned down to the filter now, and I light another one from its glowing ember. I manage to actually get the bottle up to my mouth this time, and suck down a burning swallow.

Here's the thing: I know you always wanted me to love you, but the funny part is, I always did. I loved you, Earl. I loved you with all my heart. 

Just not in the way you wanted me to love you.

And that, in the end, is the tragedy, isn't it? I couldn't be what you needed me to be, and you couldn't be what I needed you to be.

Gods above, Earl, all I needed was a **friend**.

I put what's left of my second cigarette (50% of available supplies down, and a difficult decision to make soon re: tobacco stockpiles) out in the ashtray, and lift my hips to slide my wallet out of my back pocket. There's the usual stuff -- credit cards, loyalty card from the Ralphs, picture of Mom, all too little cash, receipts that I'll never actually use to reconcile my bank account. Then my fingers light upon what I'm looking for.

It's a strip of pictures from one of those photo booths you find in drugstores and shopping malls. The three photos are of the two of us, being silly and mugging for the camera, making faces. The strip is worn with age, creased and starting to come apart at the edges. Just like myself, I suppose. But even though the images are starting to fade, I can still remember how it felt to be there, to be young and free and happy with my favorite person in the world. 

I look at the photos a moment longer, then pick my lighter up from the end table and ignite the corner. The cheap coated paper burns quickly, and I hold onto it for a moment or four longer than I should, long enough for the multicolored flames to singe my fingertips.

You're gone, and I want it to hurt.

When I can't stand it any more, I drop the paper into the ashtray and watch our youthful faces blacken and curl until there's nothing left but wisps of carbon. I lift the bottle to you in a salute, and drink again.

Farewell, my almost-lover.

Farewell.

**Author's Note:**

> Like this fic? Come howl at the void with me at punkrockgaia.tumblr.com.


End file.
